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Friday, 07 March 2008

Wartime

By Rabon Saip of Elder Times

Call it "shell shock" or "battle fatigue" or PTSD, many good people have suffered, often without a lot of help or understanding, with this condition. I‘ve never been in battle, but I was almost in the Army. I memorized the eye chart by listening to the guys in front of me at the induction center (Oakland, California) and could recite the first six lines by the time it came my turn.

Until my deception was found out, I guess I was in the U. S. Army, more or less, until they sent me home.

Watching Ken Burns’ production about the Second World War lately has brought back lots of memories. In 1945, both my stepfather and mother were working at the Marin Café, on Fourth Street in San Rafael, which was a 24 hour hangout for both the local police and military from all branches.

A group of young servicemen had adopted my family and loved to come to our simple home in Tiburon Wye, right off a then two-lane Highway 101. The core of our house was in fact a remodeled railroad car, left over from an era when trains ran all over Marin County. The car had apparently been left on a siding and eventually became the property owner’s project for wartime rental housing. A couple of rooms had been added to one side of the old Pullman coach.

It was a rare weekend gathering when both my parents were home at the same time. I was ten years old and loved to be in the midst of servicemen friends during party time. There was a group of us in the kitchen and I had been allowed just one sip of bourbon.

Next to the kitchen door was one of those old fashioned refrigerators with a coil on top. Just as a young soldier came through that door with his girlfriend, with an outstretched hand ready to meet my stepfather, the refrigerator coil turned on with a sound not unlike a distant machine gun.

What happened next has lived in my soul as a vivid memory for all these years. The young soldier hit his girlfriend hard in her back, shoving her under the kitchen table. He then dove to land almost on top of her, to protect her body with his. Then the whole scene stopped like a movie frame stuck in a broken projector.

Out of that frozen tableau, with whiskey glasses and beer bottles held tight, came the sound of a gasping sob as the young man realized what had happened. His body was trembling as he pulled his girlfriend to her feet and choked out a whispered apology. The refrigerator coil went silent and no one else said a word.

In that moment, our little kitchen became a deeply graceful and holy place. And, although I didn’t fully comprehend it at the time, I could feel the deep and silent bond of compassionate understanding among those around me.

Posted by Ronni Bennett at 02:30 AM | Permalink | Email this post